


Barriers

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [27]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Blood and Injury, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being brave doesn't have to mean doing it all yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barriers

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: some unholy mix of 12!whump & dom!Clara where he's decided to be all strong and tough instead of taking care of himself, and clara has to put on her dom hat to make sure he doesn't collapse in a puddle of his own blood.

Time Lords can take a beating, Clara knows. Or she assumes, given a very small sample size. And the fact that the Doctor is vehemently insisting that he’s fine. But everyone’s got their limit. Even the Oncoming Storm over there, with his superhuman healing factor and his meditation techniques.

“You’re falling apart at the seams,” she says, reaching out to take him by the arm. He ducks out of her grasp, stumbles onward. “You know you don’t have to show off for me.”

“Not showing off,” he gasps out. And trips over his own feet, only just staying upright. It’s a steep hill, he’s not particularly graceful under the best of circumstances.

“Brave doesn’t have to mean doing it all yourself,” she yells after him, as he scrambles towards the TARDIS. “It can mean - oh, fuck you too.” The door’s swung shut behind him. She digs out her key, unlocks the door, and follows him in.

“It can mean asking for help,” she finishes.

She’s got her hands on her hips and he’s half-collapsed onto the console and this is a problem, isn’t it, how often this happens, one of them too stubborn to admit they need the other. No clue how to say it in words. He looks up and grins, mouth bloody, and then she’s barreling in for a fireman carry.

“Hey,” he says. “Okay.” He goes limp. He’s got no right to be this heavy, considering how spindly he is. She manages to get him into the medibay and dumps him unceremoniously onto the floor.

“I’d get you on a bed but my back is still funky from Albretrevox. Sit your own damn self down if you’re so strong and capable.”

He stays on the floor, looking up at her with a mix of admiration and intimidation and general head-injury loopiness. She runs the scans. And that’s a problem, isn’t it, the fact she knows by heart how to check for internal bleeding, broken bones, infections and fungal growths.

“I think I’m okay,” he whispers, and falls over. She stares at him, hard, and mouths something vulgar, and somehow gets him up onto one of the cots.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers back. And when he wakes up, after an interminable moment: “Two broken ribs, a missing tooth, concussion, bruises, lacerations, and you ruined my favorite blouse.” She points down, at the blood stain on her chest shaped like his stupid face.

“I never liked that tooth anyway,” he says, tonguing the spot where a molar had been. “Thanks, nurse. I’ll be leaving now?” He tries to get up. The force field buzzes, gently bounces him back down.

“You’re not going anywhere. _Anywhere._ You’re gonna lie there and heal, for as long as it takes. No ifs or buts or overly complicated anecdotes designed to distract me. You, there, stay.”

Something about that relaxes him. She’d known it would. He settles back, still tense but happy about it. “Yes Ma'am,” he says.

“I’m not gonna touch your dick now, if that’s what you think. This isn’t sexy. This is you being injured and prancing about like you can fix it through sheer ego. And it’s us, okay, it’s the fact that we keep - _doing this_ , to ourselves. You know?”

“Of course,” he says solemnly.

There’s a pause, a silence broken only by the beeps of whatever name that machine has, the underlying low rumble of the TARDIS, their own shaky breaths.

“It is a little sexy, though, right?” he asks, face open and kind of childlike in its genuine curiosity.

She glares at him. “No. Well. In another context - ”

“Because I can’t move,” he continues, the gears in his head visibly turning. “Which is similar to other situations that I - that you find sexy. Even if my nose is bleeding.” He shifts up as much as the force-field will let him, blood leaking down to his collar.

This is a problem, isn’t it. She relents, to herself or to him she’s not sure, but she shrugs and she rolls her eyes and she reaches through the force-field, feeling the static electric shocks on her skin, and pushes him back down. “Fine,” she says, teeth gritted. “I’ll touch your dick. But just this once. And you owe me, okay?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Next time you’re appropriately wounded I’ll make sure to - _ow_ , easy now.”

_Nope_ , she thinks, knowing he can hear it. Feel it. Whatever. _You want it you got it, and you can’t complain, Mr Nothing’s Wrong._ She pulls back. “Safeword is ‘geronimo’,” she says out loud. “And don’t think we’re not gonna have a serious conversation about this later.”

“You always know just what to say to turn me on,” he grinds out.

“See, you say that like it’s a joke,” she says, reaching around past his balls (thankfully, one of the few bits of him not black and blue) and tweaks them gently, the skin sliding between her fingertips. He squirms. “But I know you like it.” She leans down, straddling him now, and she whispers into his ear: “Emotional consequences.”

“Stop.”

“Dealing with our issues like we’re grown-ups.”

“Please - ”

“Talking about how this effects us and our relationship with each other.”

“ _Please_.”

 

It’s not the strangest handjob she’s ever given, she reflect as she washes her hands and flicks the decontamination switch. Which says something about her, about them. The fact she’s now carefully cooling down her arousal as she watches him sleep, conked out just like she knew he’d be. Machines she has no name for knitting him back together, maybe even growing him a new tooth. This isn’t normal. This shouldn’t feel fine. But to hell with normal, really. His voice in her head: _Normal is for other people. Not for us._

And hey, if it’s her the next time in the medibay, after a dumb mistake and a bout of egotistical self-destruction. So what. If he can do it, so can she. And, let’s be honest, she sort of wants to know what it’s like. The machines and the adrenaline rush and his hands on her body.

She pets his hair, and smiles, and swallows down something unwieldy, and leaves to let the TARDIS do her work.


End file.
